Author's note: I've got hiccups and they're driving me INSANE.
Gemma made sure neither her mother or sister were in the main room before she sneaked in. She quickly got out a random book, hid her bag and coat in a cupboard and jumped onto a chair. And not a moment too soon as Faiyre walked through the door a few seconds later.
"Where were you after school? I told you I'd wait for you. I stood outside that bloody door for twenty minutes before I realised you'd gone home already."
"Yeah."
"And the heating in the corridor had broken."
"Oh," Gemma said with sincerity, "Sorry. I just…sorry."
"Ah, that's OK," Faiyre said ruffling her little sister's hair, "I know you can't stand to be around that place. And I don't blame you, either. You know, you should hang around with me and my mates at lunch, I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
Gemma snorted. The people at her school could tolerate a lot: some would have their heads flung down toilet bowls; some would stab each other with pens and drag it down their arms leaving a painful-looking white streak; some would eat stuff alive for a bet. But she knew that not one of them would be prepared to hang around with her out of lessons, and some had trouble accepting it when they were in lessons. Not all of them were that bad, granted, but at least nine people had actually come up to her and told her what they thought of her. She had a name for these people: whorebags.
"Nah, that's OK, Faiyre," she replied politely, "I'm alright by myself. I prefer it that way."
Which was true. It would only stop being true if people began to like her for her. And that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.
Gemma's mum paced into the room.
"Oh, hi girls! Good day at school?"
"Same old, same old," they replied in unison.
"Mum?" Gemma asked, "Is it OK if I go to this after school catch-up thing they've set up?"
"When is it?" she asked shrugging off her jacket.
"Every day."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
Gemma's mum leaned on her chair, "Since when were you willing to go to an after-school club? You hate the sociality of it."
"I…it doesn't bother me as much," she lied, "I've sort of made a friend."
"Oh, Gemma, that's great! What's their name?"
"Ar-" she checked herself; it was too risky to say 'Arnold' in front of Faiyre, "Ar…mmmmin. Armin. Armin is his name."
"Armin? That's unusual."
Gemma just shrugged, "You can't make it up!"
Her mother laughed, "No, I suppose not. Anyway, what do you two say to spaghetti bolognese tonight?"
"Make it with red wine, Mum!" Gemma pleaded, "I like watching Faiyre afterwards!"